The opening sentence for the February 12th, Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: “……. For the thousandth time, I promise you, it wasn’t me!”
Fido had that look about him. We’d seen it before. The last time we came home and realised we had left him inside.
The lounge was a lounge only in name now.
He had ripped open the fabric and dragged the stuffing around the room.
Roger looked at me and I at him.
Fido looked at both us in the most innocent of ways. It clearly was someone else’s’ fault.
I was shaken by the sight and sank to my knees just as Fido delivered a large sloppy lick to my face.
In complete exasperation I reached out and cradled Fido in my arms softly scolding him for the damage he had caused.
This was to be his last hurrah. Tomorrow morning we had an appointment at the vets.
Change awaited Fido who after tomorrow would see lounges as somewhere to sit and sleep. All things boy related would become a vague, distant and confusing memory.